The sirens are loud. It makes my head hurt. Turn them off, please...
I try, frantically, to lift my arm, but I seem to be strapped up. I can’t move, not an inch.
There’s pressure on my body, my chest, as if it’s about to break.
There’s a face above me. I can’t make out the features. It’s all far too hazy.
The ambulance drives down the streets and over every possible obstacle at full speed. It shakes my body violently from side to side.
My limbs bang against the sides of the slate, they try to hold me back but don’t always succeed as well. One of the men curses at the driver.
“Just be careful!”
There you have it. I wish I had been more careful.
I want to cry out that I’m cold, that I’m scared, that I want to go home, but the respiration device blocks the way.
I want to lift my head to see, but can’t. What’s going on? What’s going on?
My lips shape please, they don’t respond, can’t they hear me, can’t they see it?
All the world resorts to mutters as a man’s words wipe my pages blank and resonate in my head. I, Echo, hear them over and over again:
Time of death, 3.53 p.m.